


A Rare Partnership

by gaslightgallows (hearts_blood)



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Banter, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Case Fic, Established Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_blood/pseuds/gaslightgallows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief look at what an evening in Phryne and Jack’s life together, professional and personal, might be like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rare Partnership

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place at some indeterminate point after the end of Series 3.

They left the station in separate cars, so Phryne wasn’t at all surprised to beat Jack home. “What do you think, Mr. Butler?” she asked, breezing into the hall. “Ten, fifteen minutes ahead of him?”

“I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit longer than that, Miss,” said Mr. Butler, apologetically. “The Inspector telephoned shortly after your departure, and said that he had been flagged down and asked to go back to the station. Something about a dismembered hand.”

Phryne's eyes went wide. “Oh! So a piece of the body _did_ turn up!”

“Apparently, Miss.” Mr. Butler took gentle custody of his mistress’s light summer coat, which would wrinkle atrociously if left to Miss Fisher’s care. “He was uncertain how long he would be kept back this evening, and requested that you not wait supper for him.”

“Oh dear. When Jack says he won’t be home in time for a meal, then who _knows_ when he'll be back? Ah well,” she sighed, “best put some sandwiches in the icebox, Mr. Butler.”

Phryne dithered over her solitary meal in silence, thinking over the case. It seemed as though it ought to have been straightforward enough: a case of murder for insurance money, and neither she or Jack had taken much notice of it at first. Albert Bainbridge had gone for a swim despite the foreshore being currently off-limits to bathers due to a number of shark sightings. His wife Eliza had then tried to collect on his three hefty insurance policies. It was the insurance companies who had contacted the police, demanding either a body or a murder charge. The advertisements had gone out in that morning's paper, despite Jack being convinced that nothing would come of it; in fact, Jack had bet Phryne a pound that they would never hear the name “Albert Bainbridge” in relation to a homicide investigation again.

She considered the problem thoroughly, barely tasting the delicate ice she was spooning into her mouth, and then went upstairs and had a bath. She thought it might clear her brain.

After she had bathed and wrapped herself in her favorite dressing gown (black, embroidered with fiery-coloured fighting cocks), Phryne curled up on the chaise in the parlour with a well-traveled copy of “The Ladies’ Almanack.” Mac had recommended it, not only on the grounds that the author was a lady of the Sapphic persuasion, but also because “any book that has to be smuggled from Paris to San Francisco to Melbourne is probably something you’d love,” which was logic that Phryne could not refute.

Certainly a tale about a lady who had been “a pioneer and a menace” in her youth was one that Phryne would normally have found herself engrossed by. But she couldn’t quite get the case out of her head, both because it was a very odd one, and because it was currently standing between her and her favorite male belonging.

It seemed plausible enough at the outset that Eliza Bainbridge had caused her husband to be done away with, as the couple was known to be in financial trouble and, as one neighbor put it, ‘too fond of a dust-up’. But at the same time... “Surely feeding one’s husband to the sharks is a little excessive,” Phryne mused aloud, glaring blankly at the same page she had been reading over and over for the past ten minutes, “particularly when there are insurance assessors to be appeased.”

“I hope you’re not taking too many notes,” said a mildly worried voice from behind her. Phryne turned and beheld her partner leaning in the archway. Jack’s lips quirked slightly. “Besides, I’m so lean and stringy, I doubt the sharks would want me.”

Phryne happily discarded her book and bounded to her feet. “Oh, don't be ridiculous,” she said, twining her arms about his neck. “If the sharks won’t have you, I’m sure the vamps will.”

Jack smirked, resting his big hands lightly on her hips. “What, now? When I look like something the cat dragged in?”

“You look...” She tipped her head to one side, pretending to consider. Jack copied the movement, a deep quiet amusement lurking in his eyes. “You look tired. And hungry. And utterly ravishing, darling Jack.” She knotted one hand in the hair at the back of his head and pulled him down for a long, sweet kiss.

“Tired and hungry, yes,” Jack rumbled. “But let’s leave the ravishing til after I’ve had a bath hmm?”

Phryne grinned, looking him up and down appraisingly. “If you’re very lucky, you might need two baths.”

One of the best things about being intimately involved with Miss Phryne Fisher, Jack decided, was being granted access not only to her person – an honor and a privilege without equal – but to her bedroom. There was something inexpressibly wonderful about being able to arrive at her home at the end of a long, difficult day, enjoy a quick whiskey in the parlor, and then trudge up to Phryne’s bedroom, shed his cares and his clothes, and sink with a groan of relief into the long, deep tub hidden behind the crane-printed Japanese screen in the corner.

The house he had lived in after marrying Rosie possessed a proper bathroom, a hell of a luxury for a kid more accustomed to Saturday cat-baths in the kitchen, and in the boarding house where he had lodged during the divorce proceedings, while the fate of his little bungalow was being decided, there had been a shared bath in the hallway, of such dubious cleanliness that Jack had taken to using the cold showers at the station. It actually hadn’t been _that_ much cleaner, being kept for the prisoners before they were remanded into more permanent custody, but at least Jack knew where most of those people had been.

Phryne’s house also possessed several glorious bathrooms, of course; the one on the ground floor for the use of the staff, and the one in the upstairs hall that Jane used, along with any guests who happened to be in the house. For the most part, that was the one that Jack used when he spent the night, being right next to the bedroom that had somehow become cluttered with many of his books and cycling magazines. But some days, what he craved far more than a plain old bath was an interminably long, hot soak in Phryne’s tub, in Phryne’s room, preferably with Phryne herself perched on a little stool beside him and taking an active interest in his ablutions.

“By the way,” Jack spoke up, after a pleasant interlude of Phryne massaging sandalwood-scented shampoo into his thick hair. “I owe you a pound.”

She grinned. “Yes, Mr. Butler mentioned something about a dismembered hand.”

“A nice fresh human hand, not long in the water, and with a convenient ring on one finger bearing the initials ‘A.B.’”

“Then I take it that the appendage belonged to the unfortunate Mr. Bainbridge?”

“That was what the two wharfies who brought the hand in wanted me to believe. As did Mrs. Bainbridge, who conveniently accompanied them – and the hand – to the station.”

“In floods of tears, no doubt.”

“Very convincing tears.”

“And the hand?”

“Not very convincing.” Jack let his eyes slide closed while Phryne’s clever fingers worked to release some of his stress. “On closer inspection, the letters on the ring had been scratched in, rather than properly engraved, and Dr. MacMillan is confident that the hand was crudely removed from its original owner by a hacksaw, not a shark. Oh, and it’s a woman’s hand.”

“…That does put a very different spin on things,” Phryne agreed, after a moment to let the information all sink in. Her short nails scratched pleasantly at his scalp. Jack sighed in contentment, and then winced a little.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No, no, it’s nothing you did. I’m just a bit sore from inactivity, I suppose. I’ve been spending too much time behind my desk and not enough time riding… my bicycle.”

“Ah.” Phryne smoothed the excess suds out of his hair and dipped her hands into the water to rinse them, then slipped them coyly down his chest. “I would be happy to... massage the area for you, if you like.”

Jack opened his eyes and looked up at the woman hanging over him. There was definite compassion in her expression, and a very definite sly hunger as well. “I’ll consider it,” he said huskily. “After you’ve washed the soap out of my hair.” Phryne replied with a playful upside down pout. Jack reached up and cupped her cheek. “Of course, you could always join me... in the bath.”

Phryne’s grin was slow and thrilling. “How abandoned... but the tub’s hardly big enough.”

“Afraid of a little water, Miss Fisher?”

“Afraid of getting water all over my favorite Persian rug.”

“Well, then, what’s your favorite Persian rug doing next to your bath tub?” Jack arched up a bit and kissed her quickly. The motion gave Phryne a good look at how much Jack wanted her in the tub with him, and also transferred suds from his head to Phryne’s satin-covered bosom. “Besides, you’ve already got my shampoo all over your dressing gown.”

“Excuse me, _you_ got your shampoo all over my dressing gown.” Phryne gave him a mock glare and sat back on her heels. “Fortunately, that’s easily remedied.”

Jack heard the soft swish of fabric dropping to the floor, and then Phryne's hands were once again stroking through his hair. “There. Now, if you do that again, you’ll just have to wash it off me.”

“Oh, the terrible burden...” He settled his head back on the porcelain edge of the tub so that he could enjoy the sensation of soft breasts against his scalp, while Phryne cupped water in her palms and rinsed away the rest of the shampoo. 

Rising from the little stool, Phryne walked round to where Jack could see and admire her bare, lithe form, which he did gladly. “So what sort of case do we have on our hands, exactly? Insurance fraud, murder, or both?”

“At the moment I’m inclined to think both. Eliza Bainbridge claims to have never met the two wharfies who brought in the hand, and no one’s seen hide or hair of Albert Bainbridge since he went off swimming a week ago.”

“But if that’s the case, and Bainbridge is actually dead, why march into the police station with a woman’s hand?” Phryne leaned against the wall and frowned. Her posture, though wholly unintended, was not exactly calculated to induce deep thought in her partner, whose head was already occupied by other, far more pleasant thoughts. 

“Phryne.”

“And for that matter, who does the hand _actually_ belong to? Could it be that—“

“ _Phryne._ ”

She looked at Jack in surprise. He held out his arms and made an imperious little gesture with his hands that said, very plainly, “Come here.”

A sultry smile spread across Phryne’s pale pink lips, unadorned with lipstick and utterly her own, the way Jack liked them best. “You’re very insistent tonight, Inspector,” she purred, trailing her fingers in the water at his feet. 

“I’ve already been delayed once this evening, Miss Fisher. Any longer and I might decide to sleep elsewhere.”

She considered, her green eyes locked with his blue ones. “But we haven’t finished discussing the case.”

Jack sat up in the water and grabbed her wrist, gently tugging her towards him. “You’re welcome to keep talking.”

Phryne let out a laugh, low, breathy, and delighted. She maneuvered her limbs into the water, coming to rest with her knees astride Jack’s hips and her hands on his broad shoulders. “Slowly,” she warned him, with mock-severity. Their bodies fitting together drew a gasp from her and a groan from him. “We still have a murder to solve, or not solve, and my rug—“

“To hell with the rug,” Jack growled, nipping at her neck. “‘Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, and we are for the dark.’”

When Jack Robinson deigned to quote Shakespeare at her, there was nothing for Phryne to do but surrender.

“I do hope,” she said, much later, after they had removed themselves to her bed and she was snuggled down into Jack’s embrace and feeling very content with life, “that this will be how we work our way through all difficult cases, from now on.”

“Difficult cases, easy cases, no cases at all…” His fingers stroked lightly at the soft skin of her upper back. “It’s been years since I’ve felt like this.”

“I can believe it, if that first dance was anything to go by. You really shouldn’t neglect your health in that way, Jack.”

“Just because you have a far more needy libido than I do—“

“Oh, Inspector,” Phryne chuckled. “I see no evidence of that at all.” She slipped a leg over his waist and pushed herself up to straddle him playfully. “But if you want me to try and disprove your theory…”

Jack submitted to her kisses, and responded with warm hands on her thighs and a deep contented “Mmm… but Phryne. We still have to figure out whether or not we have a murder on our hands.”

“Jack... oh, all right.” She kissed him quickly and resumed her spot beside him. “After that glorious waltz, I suppose I can afford to be charitable.”

Jack’s hand came to rest into the shallow curve where her waist met her hip.


End file.
